23 August 2021
I was at dinner with Michel and Nancy last night when the conversation turned to the construction of their new house. It’s going to be a beautiful home and it’ll be finished probably before December rolls around. In any case, it got me to thinking about my experiences renting homes through the years and upon reflection, I realized there were quite a few weird things that happened up until I bought the house I’m now living in for the past 27 years.
My first location in south Florida was the Lincoln Chateau apartments on, you guessed it, Lincoln St. in Hollywood, Florida. I found the apartment after quite a bit of searching. Most of the places I could afford either didn’t have central air nor did any have any form of heat. I was told at one place that “This is Florida, you don’t need a heater.” By the way, that was 1985 and it snowed a few flakes that year and water puddles froze over.
I was on the second floor of the Lincoln Chateau and had a U-Haul of furniture I needed to offload. I simply pulled up as close to the building as I could and began to unload with the help of my brother Archie. We had no more gotten started that someone pulled up very angry and explained I was in their parking place. I asked if they would consider parking in my spot until I got unloaded. Nothin’ doin’. I pulled the U-Haul over to my space and doubled the distance Archie and I had to move things. This should have been an omen.
It seems parking in Hollywood, Florida is at a premium. I realized it when I finally got time to explore the downtown area and every parking spot had a sign or stencil indicating which stores the spots were for. If you parked at one spot and went into a different store than marked, the store manager would call a towing service to have your vehicle removed. That’s when I noticed the proliferation of signs advertising towing companies.
Back to Lincoln Chateau…. I had a neighbor on each side of me. The couple to the east was very quiet. The one to the west was a gentleman of about 50 years old who lived alone. He was friendly enough and me, being a southerner, was friendly right back. It was only later that I learned the neighbors had called the police on him because he had a habit of having young kids in the complex crawl into his lap while around the pool area.
One afternoon I came back late from campus and found my door wide open. There was a distinct smell of tear gas in my apartment. I had noticed the police in the parking lot so I walked back down and asked what was going on. I was informed my neighbor had gone off the deep end. He’d reported to the police someone had shot at him while he was in his car. Later the police learned he had shot his own car up and that’s when they called out the tactical unit to storm his apartment. He apparently had barricaded himself in his apartment and the police had to break down the door after shooting tear gas through his window. The tear gas had leaked into my apartment and the police were airing my place out – without any guard on the place.
Lincoln Chateau was not too good with maintenance issues. His window and door remained un-repaired for several months. Actually, my air conditioner was down for six months and even though I walked over to the office every day to report it, they did nothing. They finally gave me a break on the rent but not retroactively.
Later, I asked for a month to month lease – I was looking to get the hell out. They agreed. It’s law in Florida that landlords must return deposits after a specified time. My time was one year and it was up. When I moved out, they refused to refund my deposit until I threatened legal action.
My next place was a little garage apartment off Funston Street, exactly 1/2 block off US1. It had a living room, a large kitchen/dining area and a tomb of a shower. The back door of the place opened up into a 4×8 space that was my bedroom.
My landlady was an 80 year old Italian lady – who had an 80 year old Italian boyfriend. I was notified of the vacancy because the person who moved out – and told me about it – was my department chair at the time. The rent was perfect, $300/month. It had one window air conditioner in the living room and it fit me perfectly.
I would frequently host department parties and there was a law office just off US1. I called the attorney and asked if my friends could park there after hours. He gladly gave me permission and so there was always easy parking for guests.
One party got a little loud when, gasp, teachers overimbibed! I realized it and quickly cut the volume down on the stereo. About an hour later the police knocked on my door and said they had received a complaint. After talking with me a minute, the police realized they couldn’t even hear the stereo and let it go.
I reported it to my landlady and she let loose with a stream of Italian curses about one of her neighbors who had nothing better to do than phone in complaints. It was then I realized that in Hollywood, everyone hated everyone else. She talked badly about the Russians (who I got along with) the Jews (who I got along with) the Blacks (who I got along with), etc., etc. The truth is every ethnic segment of Hollywood seemed to have something against the other.
My landlady always used to feed my department chair when he lived there so she decided to do the same to me. She thought I needed fattening up. She was constantly bringing over dishes and soups and breads. It was great until I realized her sight was failing. I think she had some dishwashing detergent sitting next to the salt because the next time she fixed me Pasta e Fagioli it was sudsy. After that, whatever she brought me ended up in the garbage and I returned her clean dishes the next morning with profuse thanks.
A friend of Mississippi came down one weekend and he asked me to take him around to all the gay hotspots. He accumulated a good bit of gay “literature” from the bars and he was looking through it while I read the Sunday paper. Then he wanted to read the paper while I cooked breakfast. After we ate, I asked if he was through with the paper and he said yes. I always took my newspaper, after I had read it, to my landlady and her boyfriend. I gathered it up and about an hour later, he asked where his reading material was. It dawned on me he had mixed his magazines in with the Sunday paper. I had to rush over and ask for the paper back. The boyfriend was in the middle of reading it but he didn’t say a word as he handed it back over with all the gay magazines in it.
In the spring I used to sleep with the windows open since the air conditioner didn’t cool too well anyway. One night about 2 am I awoke to someone standing over me going through my bill fold. I shouted “Hey!” and sat up in bed. It was dark but he pointed something at me and said “I shoot you! I shoot you!” I got less brave at that point. He literally jumped out of the bed room window. I called the police. They actually nabbed someone and asked me to identify but I couldn’t because I only saw the outline of him. For the next 10 years I would wake up exactly at 2 am.
The strangest thing that ever happened was someone knocked on my “front” door one day and asked if my name was Searcy. I said yes and he handed me a wad of my mail. I asked what was up and he said the postal carrier consistently delivered my mail to his address two blocks over on a different street. I asked why. He said the mail carrier told him that someone used to live at that address five years ago by the name of Searcy so that’s where he delivered it. Every piece of mail the guy handed me said clearly Funston Street, not the street the guy lived on.
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The garage had been turned into the living room. The bedroom, kitchen and bath were three steps up from the living room. I had a stove, full sized fridge, a dishwasher, and a sunken bath tub! There was white tile throughout the “house.” That threw me for a minute because I figured it would be impossible to keep clean, but honestly, that white tile was the easiest. It showed any speck of dirt instantly and all you had to do was damp mop it.
The garage door still functioned and I could open the living room up to the outside. There was a wall around a patio area that gave me privacy from the big house as well as the street. I stayed there and did work on the place while living there. The previous renter would deduct his hours and materials from the rent but I never did. I painted the inside, caulked all the windows (which leaked) and generally kept it in excellent condition.
There was a retired school teacher next to his place and she had fruit trees in her back yard. She was constantly bringing me grapefruits, oranges, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, etc. from her trees and garden. It was paradise.
Then the evil girlfriend thought I was getting by too cheap. I think I was paying around $600/month. She sent me a note and said they were increasing the rent to $1200. I left.
By the way, she had two children, a boy and a girl. She named the girl Amanda and the boy was named Blake. Shades of Gunsmoke!
From there I moved into Ron Jones apartment on NE 6th Street in Fort Lauderdale, a half block off Federal. That’s twice I’ve lived 1/2 block off Federal (US1). It was a two story, two bedroom, 2 1/2 bath apartment with a pool for the complex. This was the most entertaining place I’ve ever lived. You didn’t need TV.
It turns out NE 6th St and Federal, at the time, was the place to pick up male hustlers. I would stand by my bedroom window which looked out on the street below and see a regular cavalcade of prostitutes and their Johns. There were knife fights, lovers quarrels, robberies, drug deals, you name it, all unfolding before my eyes.
The guy to the east of me often partook of the cornucopia of prostitutes and was often “rolled” by the hustler. I woke one night to a guy jumping the brick wall to the street from his apartment. The next day I saw my neighbor with blackened eyes and bruises for days. He was really hustled.
The guy to the west of me worked nights as a lineman for FPL. He had roll down shutters on every window and door. His girlfriend worked at Shirttail Charlies during the evenings and when she would get in, she’d often go out to the pool and we’d get into all kinds of conversations. Every time she was on duty at Shirttail’s I got a free drink after that.
I was robbed (technically) one day when I got out of my truck in my parking space. A woman walked up to me and immediately stuck her hand in the window and started stealing change that I kept in the door panel.
One day Joel and I were doing something out front of the complex when a guy on roller blades came past us. We both did a double take. The guy was naked except for a thong.
To the east of the complex was one of those old fashioned drug stores with cafe. The chef worked there during the day and as head chef at 15th Street Fisheries during the night. It was the place to go for lunch because it was very, very cheap and very, very delicious. His wife was the waitress and we became friends. We always got larger servings than anyone in the cafe.
Sadly, the owner died and the place was sold. No more gourmet lunches for rock bottom prices. I think I lived at Ron’s for seven years. That’s when a friend recommended I use my GI Bill to buy the house I’m currently in. It’s the first house I’ve own and probably will be the last house I’ve owned.
Over the years, I’ve had two pickups. When you have a pickup, you become everyones’ best friend. Particularly when they need to move. Particularly when they want you to not only loan them the truck but also your muscles. I’ve helped move too many people for me to remember but I have never asked anyone to help me to move. Ever. Archie volunteered otherwise he wouldn’t have come down the time he did.
I decided that for the move to 2451 I would ask for help. I had things boxed up pretty well and the night before the move, Keith and I painted the entire inside of my house. I waked the next morning and I didn’t think I was going to be able to get out of bed. I forced myself up and by that time the door bell rang and the first of the movers showed up. The people I called on came through in spades. Betty Brady and her two sons, Irmgard Bocchino, Tom Green and Kurt Wilhelm, and Joel and Keith pitched in.
One of Betty’s sons brought a trailer, I had my truck and I also rented a U-Haul. We loaded everything up and we made it to 2451 and started unloading. I realized it was getting close to time for lunch so I was told to go get pizza and sodas. By the time I got, they had made a second trip and unloaded everything. It was all done and the only thing I had done was load my truck. It was the easiest move I’ve ever made.
Thankfully, there’s been no real drama at 2451. Maybe it has something to do with rental properties in South Florida.